


A Hard Day's Night

by EuterpesChild



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Beatles
Genre: Background Relationship, Gen, Hard Day's Night, M/M, Songfic, platonic if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuterpesChild/pseuds/EuterpesChild
Summary: Originally written in 2013 and posted on deviantArt.A songfic based on the song "Hard Day's Night" by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. The first two verses are in italics and mark the beginning of each chapter/section.I got this idea one night that this song kind of summed up John & Sherlock's relationship. Okay, yes, so the song is romantic and their relationship doesn't have to be (which is why I somehow managed to avoid romance in this fanfic- ASTONISHING), but I think it still works.





	

            _It’s been a hard day’s night_  
      John dragged his feet up the stairs. He’d been called into A &E because of a huge fire that had broken out near Westminster, and because of the sheer number of casualties he’d been forced to work nigh on six hours after he’d already worked a 12-hour day at the hospital.  
  
            _And I’ve been working like a dog_  
It wasn’t that John particularly minded working at the hospital, but he wished he’d had more than just two hours between times. He was sure that after all that time, Sherlock would’ve had something else explode in the microwave and he’d have to clean that up as well.  
  
      _It’s been a hard day’s night_  
John finally reached the top of the staircase and stumbled into the living room to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa with a plate of toast, watching the news on the telly. Without looking up, Sherlock asked, “So how was it?” John was rather surprised that Sherlock had even noticed he’d been gone, but he replied, “Hellish.”  
  
      _I should be sleeping like a log_  
Sherlock muted the telly and looked at him. After a brief glance, he said with a half smile, “You look it.” John rolled his eyes and half-fell into the doorjamb when a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him. “Go bathe,” Sherlock ordered in a surprisingly gentle tone. John didn’t protest.  
  
      _But when I get home to you_  
John felt somewhat revived after his shower, and was able to descend the stairs from his bathroom rather normally. He reentered the living room to find Sherlock still watching telly, but there was now a steaming cup of tea on the table next to Sherlock, and an empty space on the sofa.  
  
      _I find the things that you do_  
John sat down on the sofa and gratefully picked up the teacup. He inhaled deeply, the smell of the leaves making him feel slightly more awake, despite the fact that it was just about three in the morning. “Did you make this?” he asked. “Yes, I did, and no, I didn’t poison it.” Sherlock replied. John laughed, and took a deep draught of the hot drink.  
  
      _Will make me feel alright._  
After drinking a little more than two-thirds of his tea, John rested his cup down and leaned back into the couch. He closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic hum of the newsmen on the telly, and Sherlock’s gentle breathing. Not a minute later, John was fast asleep.  
  
  
  
      _You know I work all day_  
John awoke to find that he had been covered with a blanket, his tea had been put away, and that sun was streaming through the open window. With a stretch and a moan he shrugged off the blanket. “Sherlock?” he called. No answer. Yawning, John got up slowly and glanced at the clock. 2 pm. He’d missed half his work day. In a panic he ran to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, dragged a comb through his unkempt hair, passed his toothbrush by his teeth, and practically flew out the door so he could at least get a few hours of working in, despite his over-long work day the day before.  
  
    _To get you money to buy you things_  
Sherlock returned from the morgue around 5, and entered the kitchen to see John unpacking groceries. “Groceries?” he asked. John started. “Oh! Sherlock: I didn’t know you were back. Yes: groceries. We needed more milk, cotton balls, jam, and you asked for rubbing alcohol and alkaline batteries. I couldn’t find the formaldehyde or Petri dishes, sorry. How do we run out of milk so fast?” “You don’t want to know,” said Sherlock, dead serious, as he plucked the cotton balls from John’s hand and began walking towards the bathroom. John shook his head and returned to the shopping. “You’re right, I probably don’t,” he muttered.  
  
      _And it’s worth it just to hear you say_  
As Sherlock finished his analysis of the body and looked up to see the astonished, disbelieving, and somewhat skeptical faces of the officers of the Yard, he was comforted by the feeling of John’s presence at his shoulder. As much as he protested against having feelings, Sherlock was stung by the constant cynicism and constant disbelief of his abilities from Donovan and Anderson. He’d been at the point of despair and was about to give up when he met John. “Fantastic,” John breathed, and Sherlock relaxed.  
  
    _You’re gonna give me everything_  
“John!” Sherlock called from the kitchen. A crash and a muffled curse, then John appeared in the doorway, balancing on one leg more than the other. “Yes Sherlock?” he said, breathless. “Could you get me that lighter and another toothpick? Also we’re out of tea.” John stared at him for a moment. He had been sure Sherlock had blown up the oven again, or burned himself with acid, and all he needed was for John to hand him something two feet away and go on a shopping trip? “Sure,” he said finally, after barely a moment’s hesitation, and handed Sherlock the requested items before grabbing his coat from the hook. “Be back in a tic; don’t kill yourself.”  
  
      _So why on earth should I moan_  
John came up the stairs to the flat but froze when he heard groans. He guessed them to be Sherlock, and based on the sound he figured Sherlock was on the couch, but why on earth would he be moaning? Mounting the last few steps cautiously, he peered into the living room. Sherlock was lying on the couch with two nicotine patches on each arm, moaning softly as the jolts of the drug entered his system. His voice slightly choked with suppressed laughter, John asked, “You okay, Sherlock?”  
  
    _‘Cause when I get you alone_  
Neither of them was exactly sure how it had happened, but John and Sherlock had had to go to an elegant ball that Mycroft was hosting, and had there seen Lestrade, Molly, and, oddly enough, Irene Adler. They had been somehow prevented from leaving until four hours had passed, which was quite enough for the both of them. The cabbie looked somewhat scared at their expressions after they’d managed to escape, and didn’t protest when Sherlock told him to hurry. The two men dashed up the stairs to 221B and flung themselves down on the sofa, heedless of clothes and each other’s limbs. It took a good half hour of the quiet flat before they had both calmed down sufficiently to speak. John found that he’d managed to trap one of Sherlock’s long legs behind his head, and Sherlock discovered his hand was gripping John’s foot. They both looked at each other, slightly embarrassed, but when they spoke all that emerged was: “Never again?” “Agreed.”  
  
      _You know I feel okay._  
John woke up in the middle of night, sweaty, scared, and tangled in his sheets. After sitting petrified for a moment in his tossed-up sheets, he disentangled himself, fighting panic the while, and made his way to the kitchen. To his utter astonishment, he found Sherlock, dressed neatly in pyjamas and dressing gown, boiling water for tea. Two teacups sat next to him, and as John watched, Sherlock lifted the teakettle, arranged the teabags, and poured the hot water over the teabags. John entered slowly, content to watch and forget his nightmare. When the tea had steeped, Sherlock added the exact amount of cream and sugar that they each preferred, and handed a teacup to John. Without saying a word, John took the cup with a grateful look and they both drank in the warm silence of the kitchen.


End file.
